Secret Agent X - The Complete Series Volume 4

by Emile C. Tepperman

  Then she rose and bent over him. Self-control was difficult for the Agent at that moment, the temptation to open his eyes at least a slit, almost overpowering. For all he knew, Vivian de Graf might be planning to jab a knife into him. But a moment later she moved away across the carpeted floor.

  SHE picked up a telephone and dialed a number. Agent “X” listened intently. His ruse had worked. Vivian de Graf thought him unconscious or dead, and her next move should betray her further.

  Her voice came to him. “Lorenzo—this is Vivian. Please drop over, at once! There’s something that may be rather important.”

  Lorenzo! The Agent’s heart beat fast. Through his act of appearing to swallow the drug it seemed he was about to meet some one else closely connected with the criminal gang. Vivian de Graf’s whole manner during the last hour had served to convince him that his first suspicion of her had been right.

  He lay quietly, apparently in the depths of dreamless unconsciousness, when the woman returned to her seat. She hummed a few bars of a popular song with astounding casualness. She had jilted a wealthy lover of years’ standing, she had had acid thrown in her face, she had given another man drugged wine—yet she could sing! Here was a woman of the temperament and caliber of the Borgias.

  She went into an adjoining room, leaving the door open. “X” could hear the soft rustle of feminine garments. Then she returned, settled herself in a chair and idly flipped the pages of a magazine. Shortly afterward a buzzer sounded, two short notes, a long, and another short.

  Vivian de Graf crossed quickly to the door, opened it and said: “Come in, Lorenzo.”

  Agent “X” heard a man’s tread. He slitted one eye and stared toward the door in time to see a man enter. He was about thirty, smooth-shaven, suave, with sleek black hair. But his features bore the lines and blotches of dissipation, making him look older.

  He started at sight of “X’s” body, then gave a lop-sided smile. The door closed and Vivian de Graf said casually, “Just a friend who dropped in, Lorenzo. He’s had one drink too many. You see the result.”

  “Up to your old tricks, Vivian,” said the man called Lorenzo. “Just what does it mean?”

  “Never mind now!” There was a note of authority in Vivian’s voice, as though she were accustomed to getting her way with men. “Take him out of here at once—and when he has recovered, it might be well to question him. He was very helpful, tonight—overly solicitous of my welfare. And when people get that way I’m always—well, suspicious!”

  The young man with the gleaming black hair laughed again. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink, too, Vivian?” His tone was caressing.

  “This is not a social visit,” the woman answered icily. “Quick—get him out of here. Some one might come!”

  LORENZO approached “X,” placed hands upon his shoulders and began shaking roughly. This gave the Agent his cue. He was not supposed to be poisoned, only drugged—and evidently, with some drug from which he could be aroused.

  He sighed, stirred faintly, letting his head flop as Lorenzo shook him, manifesting the sluggishness of a man in a chloral hydrate coma. Lorenzo lifted him to his feet, and Agent “X” shuffled feebly, moving like a sleep-walker.

  Vivian flung the door wide and Lorenzo marched his charge out to a waiting car. Agent “X” stumbled, almost fell, letting one knee strike realistically against the car’s door. Lorenzo bundled him in, slammed the door after him, and went round to the driver’s seat.

  Gears clicked, the car purred away, with Lorenzo driving carelessly and Agent “X” slumped in the seat, breathing heavily. But his eyes were open now. If Lorenzo had turned to scrutinize him in the darkness he would have beheld not a stupefied man, but one whose gaze was brightly, speculatively alert.

  The car turned out of an avenue, into a street where the lights were far apart and shadows lay heavily. “X’s” right hand began creeping toward a secret pocket in his suit. He was reaching for the compact gas gun that could knock a man out within a radius of twenty feet—one of the Agent’s most useful, non-lethal weapons.

  But just then a car came out of a side street, and as it passed the interior of Lorenzo’s car was brightly illuminated. In that instant the man detected the change in “X’s” attitude. He gave a stifled exclamation, applied the brakes, and whirled toward “X.” One hand clamped over “X’s” arm, the other doubled into a fist to drive a blow into the Agent’s face.

  Rubber squealed beneath the car. The vehicle lurched dangerously, threatened to plunge across the sidewalk into a fence. Even at that moment Agent “X” had presence of mind enough to twist the wheel, while he warded off Lorenzo’s blow with a deft twist of his head and a countering left. The car came to a stop, slewed around, and as it stood crazily across the curb in the shadows, a short, fierce struggle was waged within it.

  Lorenzo proved himself a fierce fighter. He was angry, frightened, and he fought with the ferocity of a cornered animal, using every savage trick he knew. He tried to twist over and ram a knee into the Agent’s groin. He gave the Agent no time to pull the gas gun from his pocket. But neither could he draw his own automatic which made a bulge under his armpit. It was a battle of wrenching hands and knotted fists.

  Once again, “X” resorted to a Jiu-jutsu blow. Any moment the queer position of the car and the struggling figures in it might attract attention. A patrol police cruiser might come along. Agent “X” could afford to take no chances with his prize.

  His knuckles struck Lorenzo on the side of the neck. The man’s head jerked up spasmodically, his hands clawed frantically at his throat, his tongue protruded. For a moment he was like a man choking. The blow the Agent had given him was the well-known strangling blow, which temporarily cuts off air in the windpipe.

  It gave the Agent time to do what he wanted. He drew his gas pistol from his pocket, took a deep breath himself, and then calmly fired full into Lorenzo’s face.

  The man’s body slumped limply, and Agent “X” quickly cranked down the windows of the car, letting a draft blow through. He held his breath for nearly two minutes. By that time the gas inside the car had dissipated into a mere chemical odor.

  He climbed out, pulled Lorenzo’s body from under the wheel, shoved it where his own had been, and took the wheel himself.

  Agent “X” was now in complete command of the situation, and with his unconscious burden, in a confiscated car, he drove swiftly away into the night.

  Chapter XI

  CLUES TO DANGER

  THE Agent drove down a wide avenue, twisted through a maze of streets, turned into the driveway of an old suburban house. The houses on both sides were shuttered and vacant. Under an assumed name Agent “X” had rented this place as a convenient hideout. It had certain special qualifications.

  He got out, opened the garage door, and drove in, closing the door after him. At the side of the garage was a doorway leading directly to the house. This was what made it useful to the Agent. Several times in the past he had carried unconscious bodies through that passageway, as he now carried Lorenzo.

  Depositing the man on a couch in a room with drawn shutters, Agent “X” clicked on an overhead light. He went quickly through the man’s pockets, found a wallet with an identification card, and nodded to himself. His own encyclopedic memory supplied the details the card lacked.

  The man before him was Lorenzo Courtney, black sheep son of a once wealthy family. There had been a time when a Courtney had sat on the board of every bank in the city. The family had died off gradually, leaving only Lorenzo, the spoiled and pampered darling of a doting widowed mother. He had joined a banking firm like the other members of his family before him; but the bank had been one of the first to collapse in the depression. Courtney, like old Roswell Sully, had been disgraced in the public eye.

  Leaving his captive on the couch, Agent “X” drew elaborate equipment from a cabinet. This included special lights, photographic apparatus, a sound-recording mechanism and a fingerprint set. He set the
articles up one by one, ranged around Courtney, prepared to make a more complete study of the man than he would undergo even at police headquarters. He was going to force Courtney to talk. The private third degree through which he was about to put him would bring out whatever the man knew about the criminal band. Ruthless, unconventional measures were justified in the face of such horror as had occurred outside the looted banks.

  He forced liquid stimulant between Courtney’s lips to offset the effects of the gas. When Courtney stirred, the Agent propped him in a chair, facing the battery of lights. Then he turned on the silent mechanism of his phonographic device. A stylus would make a permanent record of Lorenzo Courtney’s voice.

  Courtney opened his eyes at length. He was confused for a full minute. Then his gaze focused on the stern face before him, and he gave a visible start. A curse came from his lips. He tensed as though to leap from the chair, but the Agent stopped him with a sentence.

  “Stay where you are, Courtney!”

  The voice of the Agent had a compelling ring, and Courtney seemed to freeze. Then his eyes became combative. But he didn’t move, not with the odd, magnetic gaze of the Secret Agent fixed upon him, not in this room which seemed to speak of mystery and power.

  “Who are you?” he asked harshly. “Why did you bring me here? What do you want of me?”

  A laugh devoid of humor sounded in the room—the harsh laugh of Secret Agent “X”. Then he said: “A half hour of your time, Courtney, and the answers to the questions I shall ask.”

  Courtney’s eyelids narrowed. He was fully awake now. “So,” he said. “Vivian de Graf had a right to be suspicious of you. You are a detective?”

  Agent “X’s” reply was stern. “I’m the one who will ask questions. You are to do the answering.”

  Courtney’s glance flashed around the room. He saw that the Agent held no gun on him, yet he appeared to realize that he couldn’t escape. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.

  “This isn’t police headquarters,” he said. “You are not—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He let his voice trail off. His belligerence slowly vanished. And his face became mottled with the pallor of fear, while into his eyes crept a look of awe. “You—” he stammered. “You—”

  The Agent smiled with thin lips. “Quiet, Courtney! Listen to what I have to say.”

  A cry burst abruptly from Courtney’s lips; a cry of despair and terror. “I understand,” he cried. “I understand! You are the man they call—Secret Agent ‘X’!”

  THERE was tense silence in the room. The Agent didn’t reply, and Courtney took his silence for assent. The banker’s hand darted abruptly to his breast pocket. Two fingers disappeared, and came out clutching a white capsule no larger than a bean.

  “X” leaped forward, but not quite soon enough. For Courtney had thrust the white object into his mouth. He had clenched his teeth over it, swallowed—and he broke suddenly into a peal of wild laughter.

  For an instant Agent “X” stared at the man. Then he sprang toward a small medicine cabinet containing antidotal drugs. He knew what Lorenzo Courtney had done, knew that the capsule must have contained poison. But when he turned with a bottle in his hand, he saw he was too late.

  For there were beads of perspiration on Courtney’s forehead already, and his skin was turning gray. From his open lips came the pungent smell of bitter almonds, an odor Agent “X” had sniffed before. Courtney had swallowed deadly cyanide, had taken his own life, and nothing any man could do now could stop the inroad of that terrible poison, already saturating his system.

  His breath came in labored gasps, his hideous laughter rang out again, and there was an expression of malicious triumph in his eyes as he stared at “X.”

  “You’ll never—know!” he suddenly screamed. “You’ll never—know—now—”

  His head fell sidewise. He jerked off the couch, twitched on the floor in racking spasms, then lay still. When Agent “X” stooped over him to feel his pulse, there was no flutter beneath his fingers. The man was dead.

  Bitter disappointment made the Agent’s eyes bleakly grim. He had felt certain this man was a member of the bandit gang. Now Courtney’s lips were sealed forever. Now no third degree could sweat secrets from them.

  Yet the Agent did not give up hope. Something of value might be salvaged from the wreck of his plans. He went quickly to work. Time—that was the big factor now. Time—before the makers of darkness had worked still more havoc in the city, before others met such a fate as Ellen Dowe.

  Already Lorenzo Courtney’s features were changing perceptibly, showing the first masklike aspects of death. The Agent, moving tensely, propped the dead man up with pillows, focused the powerful mercury vapor light upon him. He set up his camera, thrust in a holder of achromatic plates, took pictures of Courtney’s features from many angles. Then he made a series of careful measurements and fingerprints, piled them and the plates away to be developed as soon as he had time. He thrust Courtney out of sight in a coffinlike compartment under the couch, changed his disguise to that of A. J. Martin, and quickly left the hideout.

  Back in Martin’s office, “X” sent grim orders over the telephone to Hobart. Other orders clicked over the air in the special code signal that would reach Harry Bates.

  “Drop present work. Rush through secret investigation of Lorenzo Courtney, ex-banker. Get information concerning friends, clubs, personal habits. Rush this to me!”

  He sat for a moment in intense concentration, then with a decisive motion picked up a volume of “Who’s Who” from his desk. He flipped it open, turned to the “D’s,” scanned the columns, and stopped at “De Graf, Emil.” The paragraph beneath this name read:

  Physicist. Born Milwaukee, 1892. Student, Randall Scientific Foundation, 1910. Graduate University of Munich, 1914. Awarded Hopkinson Prize 1919 for bombardment of lithium with atomic hearts of hydrogen. Author: “Spectroscopy and the Variable Stars”; “Man’s Dependence Upon Matter.” Professor of Physics at City University.

  A city directory passed next through the Agent’s hands. Once again he found the name de Graf, then left his office quickly and sped across town in his car.

  FOR the moment he was not concerned with the beautiful Vivian de Graf. It was her scholarly husband whom he sought, the man who spent his time in classroom and laboratory, experimenting with the mysteries of the universe, while his wife experimented with human emotions.

  There was a compelling double motive behind the Agent’s desire to talk to Emil de Graf. In the first place, the man was Vivian de Graf s husband. In addition to that, he was a brilliant and original worker in experimental science. He must have some theory concerning such a phenomenon as this weird darkness which had been used as a cloak for crime.

  The Agent’s mouth was grim. He felt he was working in a darkness almost as impenetrable as that which the raiders so mysteriously created. Never had he encountered any crime quite so baffling.

  Two things he must find out, before he could combat it. One, the identity of the men who operated behind the weird darkness; the other, how that darkness was created. He knew now from Thaddeus Penny’s statements and from the pictures Hobart had made, that the sun shone even while the darkness fell—two inconsistent happenings which nevertheless formed a theory in the Agent’s mind.

  The address given in the directory proved to be an ancient, brownstone house—a very different residence from the pink stucco apartment which Vivian de Graf maintained separately.

  A slatternly servant on squeaking shoes let the Agent into a hall that smelled of dust and mothballs. She bade him wait, squeaked off into the rear of the house and returned in two minutes.

  “The professor will see you. This way if you please.”

  The rear room, converted into a laboratory, where de Graf worked, was as modern as the rest of the house was ancient. Gleaming scientific instruments stood about. Shelves of books on mathematics, chemistry, astronomy and physics lined the walls. A man with a thin face and stooped
shoulders came forward, peering at “X”. He had faded blue eyes, a vaguely sweet smile. He extended a dry, cold hand, said:

  “Yes. What can I do for you? I didn’t catch the name?”

  Agent “X” studied the man for a second. It was hard to picture the dazzling Vivian de Graf married to such a person. One of nature’s little jokes that these two had been thrown together—the withered student and the gorgeous butterfly. The Agent handed his card, bearing the name A. J. Martin, to de Graf.

  “From the press,” he said. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about a thing which vitally concerns the public at the moment.”

  Emil de Graf made a weary, harried gesture. “I’m sorry—please! I never like to give out statements of my experiments except to authenticated scientific journals. No offense meant, but the newspapers have a way of misquoting, you know. Most embarrassing.”

  The Secret Agent interrupted. “This is not about your work. Perhaps you don’t read the papers, but you must have heard of a bank robbery that took place today under odd circumstances—after the coming of darkness.”

  “Darkness,” echoed de Graf. “Of course. I heard some of my students talking about it. But really, I’m not interested in crime.”

  The Agent was watching the professor intently. De Grafs eyes were vague, expressionless. No sign of emotion was betrayed in the thin face.

  “You’re a scientist,” “X” said. “Have you no theories as to how such darkness might be created? A statement from you would be interesting.”

  De Graf laughed wearily. “Interesting perhaps to a thrill-seeking public. But hardly to scientific men, for I have made no study of this darkness you speak of. I don’t—”

  The Agent cut him short again, a frown of annoyance on his face. De Graf’s attitude was irritating. “Since your own wife was at the scene of the crime I thought perhaps—” the Agent began.

  DE GRAF chuckled. “Vivian, of course! A woman with very modern ideas, but still a child at heart. Full of zest, always getting herself into predicaments. We understand each other perfectly, she and I.”